


Ordinary People

by sleeping_lions



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Platonic Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeping_lions/pseuds/sleeping_lions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter that they're both entirely besotted with two other utterly oblivious men. For now, it's enough. It's natural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary People

“Her name’s Cosette. Cosette Fauchelevent. I’ve never met anyone like her in my entire life. I… I think I’m in love! She’s got… she’s got this hair, a-and these eyes. Her eyelashes are-“

“Brilliant. Have you actually talked to her?”

“Well um… a-a bit. Not… not really.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“I can't deal with this. You have so much potential and you're fucking wasting it all! Just leave, Grantaire. I can't bare to look at you like this."

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Grantaire finds Éponine sitting on the steps leading up to his apartment. Her legs are folded up against her chest and she is hugging her knees, trying to keep herself warm against the bitter November winds that attacked her skin through her thin, cheap clothing. 

She looks up at him as he approaches, and Grantaire can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone look that miserable. Her face was usually so full of expression. A quirked eyebrow, a bright grin, even an exaggerated scowl - but now? Nothing but a lifeless, opaque look in her eyes. 

As it always does, his mind automatically goes to the worst. Did something happen to Gavroche? Is her father threatening her again? Did Montparnasse evolve from attacking her with harsh words to hitting her with even harsher fists like the Amis were terrified he was going to?

“Marius is in love.”

Her dark, mocking tone puts an end to his internal monologue and his shoulders sag in despair for his friend. She looks up at him unwaveringly and there are no tears in her eyes because - and this has been the same for as long as Grantaire has known her - Éponine does not cry. She says she hates crying because it does nothing but make you look vulnerable. It is not a magical solution to your problems and it does fuck all to make you feel better.

He doesn’t offer words of comfort or false hope that Marius will soon see the light, he doesn’t condemn any bitches to hell when Éponine opens her mouth and tells him of the elusive Cosette in a startlingly accurate impression of Marius that is both scornful and infinitely sad.

No, what he does is sit next to her on the step in the freezing cold and offer her his jacket, which isn’t much warmer than her insufficient cardigan. She slips it on anyway, thankful for the comfort that the smell of alcohol and cigarettes clinging to the fabric brings.

They sit there in silence, in the street at two in the morning like it’s perfectly acceptable. Grantaire stares at their feet, at her clunky workboots and his ancient converse, and she stares at a crack in the pavement, tracing the imperfection with her finger.

“I went to Enjolras’ today. I think I was just looking for a fight but I told myself I was going to tell him I loved him.” This is the first thing he has said to her, and his voice is hoarse and quiet, nearly a whisper. She looks up and fixes her lifeless stare on him again.

“What happened?”

“What always happens. I started ridiculing him about something stupid just to get a reaction out of him and he told me to fuck off.”

“You’ve got to stop doing that.”

“I know. He told me he couldn't bare to look at me.”

“Ouch.”

To any other, their exchange would sound cold and uncaring. To them, it was loaded with: I know everything’s shit. It’s okay, I know how you feel. 

They sit in complete silence for a few moments more. Éponine rests her head against her knees and Grantaire begins to shiver violently against the bitter weather, folding his arms across his chest to maintain whatever body heat he has inside of him. 

“Why does shitty stuff keep happening to us, Grantaire? Do we deserve it?” Éponine muses quietly, looking to the side at her friend. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and laughs bitterly.

“Jesus, if we’re going there I think I’m going to need some more alcohol in my system,” he hauls himself up to his feet gracelessly and offers his hand to the girl beside him, “Come on, I’ve got a bottle of gin upstairs.”

When they get to Grantaire’s flat, Éponine makes herself promptly at home by throwing his jacket unceremoniously on the floor and curling up on his sofa while he find the bottle of cheap gin in his kitchen and two clean(ish) glasses. When he enters the living room she is sat with her legs folded up underneath her, staring blankly at the wall while gnawing at her nails. Through years of being her friend he has learnt that that habit stems from deep despair. 

He throws himself down next to her with all the grace of an elephant and quick as a flash she pulls his arm around her shoulders and buries herself into his side. He’s surprised, to say the least - Éponine is never particularly affectionate, years of abuse from her family and past scummy boyfriends making her distrustful and uncomfortable by the idea of physical contact. He can count all of the times Éponine has willingly hugged him on one hand.

But the contact is not unwelcome, and he settles into her embrace, chuckling as she darts forward and grabs the bottle of gin by the neck, putting it to her lips and taking a swig - disregarding the glasses entirely.

He takes it off her to mimic her action, and soon they are passing the bottle back and forth like teenagers sitting in a park. Neither of them speak until their insides were pleasantly warm and buzzing under the effect of alcohol, which is when Éponine looks up at him from under her lashes.

“We’ll be alright, won’t we? Things will get better?” She phrases it like a question, her eyes re-alighting with the desperation bubbling in her chest.

Grantaire looks at her, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, “Yeah,” is all he can bring himself to day, not trusting himself with the real answer of: I have no fucking clue, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

“If I ask you to do something, don’t like… freak out, yeah?”

His brow furrows in confusion, “O…kay?”

“Kiss me.”

He recoils like he’s been sucker-punched, blinking at the girl next to him with visible confusion. She huffs in annoyance and scoots away from him.

“I didn’t mean- urgh whatever,” she folds her arms against her chest and looks away, a bright blush blooming on her cheeks, “forget I said anythi-“

But before she can finish he has surged forward to capture her lips with his own. His kiss is slow and firm, full entirely of comfort rather than passion or lust. After having been stunned into not responding for a split second, Éponine reacts by freeing her legs from underneath her so she can straddle the drunkard, forcing him to scoot down so that he is practically lying underneath her.

It is not heated or sexual - in fact, in an absurd way it is almost platonic. It was just two friends, closer than blood, who needed nothing more than to be reminded that they weren’t alone, that somebody wanted them. They do nothing but lie together on the sofa and kiss, Éponine’s hands on his chest and his on her waist. It went no further, and after a while Éponine stops and pulls away slightly, her dark hair falling forward to create a veil around both their faces. 

“I’m tired,” she whispers, the smell of gin clear on her breath, “Can I stay here tonight?”

“What are you suggesting?” Grantaire breaths. She pokes his chest and makes a face.

“That we sleep here on the sofa together, you playing big spoon while I play little spoon. Nothing more.”

And so they do just that, Éponine clambering off him so they can both discard their jeans on the floor before settling down together. Grantaire places his arm around Éponine’s waist and she grabs his hand and pulls it up to her chest, kissing his knuckles lightly while leaving their hands entwined. Her hair tickles his nose and his breath tickles the back of her neck.

“Night.”

“Goodnight, Ép.”

They’re alike in more ways than anyone but them will ever understand, they know exactly what it’s like to be completely kicked to the kerb by a society that only cares for its elite. It’s only natural that they formed the bond between them that they did. It may not be healthy and it may not make sense, but it’s comfort. While they need something or someone to help, they want someone who will understand.

And that’s what they’ve found. Éponine can trust Grantaire not to lecture her or offer empty words of supposed comfort (that just make her feel worse, because she knows they are meaningless and lies) when she slips into his house late at night with bruises around her neck, and from Éponine he receives the same quiet understanding when he pours yet more whiskey down his throat to numb his brain and his insides.

It doesn’t matter that they’re both entirely besotted with two other utterly oblivious men. For now, it’s enough. It’s natural.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :)
> 
> follow me on tumblr: http://rouge-la-flamme-de-la-colere.tumblr.com


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